Anne Barbour (16 page)

Winifred’s eyes took on a feline cast of their own as they narrowed to steely purple slits. “That,” she purred, “will not be possible. We are going to be doing the first scene of act one just before luncheon, and I shall need Sir James. He is Egeus, you know, my—that is, Hermia’s father, and he is critical to the scene.”

Lissa turned a haughty shoulder to Winifred and swayed toward Sir James, her lips curling into an appealing smile. “What say you, sir?” she asked prettily. “Shall we escape the tyrant’s dictates for a little while to pursue our own pleasures?”

At this, Marcus stepped forward with fists clenched, but was forestalled by Sir James, who lifted a large hand. Turning an avuncular eye on Lissa, he murmured in a colorless voice. “Now, now, my dear. The day is long, after all. We can just as well postpone our voyage of exploration until the afternoon. According to the schedule drawn up by Miss Timburton, neither of us will be required after luncheon for the rest of the day. We shall have hours to plunder the delights of the village and to wander leafy glades and verdant meadows.”

Lissa blinked, and Sir James blushed a little as though embarrassed by his sudden uncharacteristic flight of fancy. Marcus, his blatantly hostile stare undiminished, subsided into his seat beside Winifred.

“Well,” said Lissa ungraciously, “I suppose that would be all right.” She cast a quick glance at Marcus who, having turned to watch with enraptured fascination a desultory game of catch being conducted by Gerard and Harry a few paces away, apparently did not notice. “If you will excuse me,” she continued with great dignity, the tremor in her voice more pronounced, “it’s been a busy day, and I think I shall retire.” With a nod to the group, she swept from the terrace.

Immediately after her departure, Marcus rose to sit alone on a balustrade, his stony gaze transferring itself from Gerard and Harry to an undetermined location in the distance.

Watching, Jane fell prey to mixed emotions. While she could not in all conscience promote a match between Winifred and Marc if he and Lissa were truly in love, her conscience was not quite so nice when it came to two people who seemed bent on remaining at loggerheads with each other. She noticed the mental daggers cast by Simon at Marcus when that gentleman had appeared to be whispering honeyed temptation into Winifred’s ear. Simon, she concluded, still believed that Marcus was Lissa’s sole property, appearances to the contrary.

She cast a disdainful glance at Charles, who had sidled into the place next to Winifred vacated by Marcus. It was plain as a pikestaff, thought Jane. Winifred’s scandalous scheme had borne its first fruits. She was already being thought of as a lightskirt.

And just look at Simon over there, grinning as though he were watching his horse round the bend ahead of the pack. He was apparently under the illusion that Charles’s attentions to his ward indicated a burgeoning desire to make her his bride. True, Charles was not leering at Winifred through his quizzing glass as he had done at Jane, nor was he fondling her bare arm as though it were a spaniel, but Jane was as sure as though the man had hung out a sign that the light in his eye boded ill for Winifred’s virtue.

She sighed. It appeared that another confrontation with Simon was in order. Not that Simon’s problems were any of her business, but if Charles and Winifred were to be caught in a compromising situation, the fact that Charles was mistaken in his interpretation of Winifred’s character would count for naught. Simon would have the two of them married before the cat could lick her ear, and Jane was determined that neither her friend nor her younger sisters would live under the same roof as the lecherous peer.

She came to herself with a start to realize that darkness was setting in and various insects of the night had come out to make nuisances of themselves. As the group moved inside to the Emerald Saloon to await the tea table, Simon hastened ahead to open the door for his aunt, and unobserved by all but Jane, Charles’s hand slipped down to brush Winifred’s shapely derriere. Winifred, to Jane’s fury, merely smiled at Charles, her violet eyes quite blank.

Once inside, Winifred fell into conversation with Sir James.

“Oh, yes,” she said, dimpling, in answer to his question, “I have every intention of becoming a professional actress.”

“I have heard that it is not an easy life,” murmured Sir James. “Rehearsals begin early and go very late. Sometimes it is necessary to play in towns other than London, just to make ends meet.”

He smiled at her, his rather hard eyes assessing. “The acting life, it seems to me requires a great deal of dedication—and discipline.”

Winifred did not take umbrage, but considered his statement thoughtfully. “It is true,” she said at last in an uncharacteristic moment of objective self-appraisal, “that I have never had to earn my own way, and I suppose I am dreadfully spoiled, but I want this very badly. No one seems to understand that.” She smiled at him, for once without a trace of coquettishness. “I am ready to do whatever is necessary to make a success on the stage.”

Across the room, Gerard and Harry exchanged significant glances, and when, a few moments later, Sir James rose to place his empty cup and saucer on the tea table, they joined him there for a few moments of intense, quiet conversation.

When, at last, everyone began to drift off to their beds, Jane lifted a hand to stay Simon, but dropped it again immediately. While Simon’s attitude toward her had, on the increasingly rare occasions when they were together, been aloof to the point of rudeness, Jane recalled her vow to avoid being alone with him in intimate circumstances. The Emerald saloon was spacious; but still, it was night, and the company would be taking most of the candles with them upstairs. She had no intention of spending so much as five minutes seated with Simon in the shadowed intimacy of a pool of candlelight. Alone. Tomorrow, in broad daylight, his study would do just as well. Or, no, not his study, she amended quickly, remembering the scent of roses from an open window. She must catch him in safe territory, someplace she could speak with relative privacy, without courting an undesirable closeness.

She had sufficient time to ponder this detail, for after blowing out her candle and climbing into bed, it was many hours before she fell asleep. Outlined against the bed hangings, she saw a face all too plainly delineated, with mahogany-colored hair falling over a compelling brow, and eyes the color of a forest pond, with flecks of gold dancing in their depths. A firm mouth seemed to smile at her in wicked invitation. That this last was wholly a product of her imagination did nothing to draw her toward sleep, for she next envisioned what it would be like to respond to that invitation. When at last she turned her face into her pillow, it was with a regretful sigh.

Despite her restless night, Jane was up early the next morning, and she proceeded immediately to her wardrobe for her shirt and breeches. She had ridden out in her boy’s clothes almost every morning since the disastrous confrontation with the master of the house. From time to time she spied Simon in the distance, and he occasionally waved to her, but he never approached her, nor did he speak later of observing her. Ordinarily, this course of action suited her for, despite the fact that she felt no guilt over her morning forays, she did feel a residual awkwardness over the manner in which she had been found out. On this particular morning, however, she had other plans in mind. After a quick stop in the kitchen for coffee and a slice of bread, she headed for the stables, and soon thereafter was mounted on Talavera.

As luck would have it, she exited the stable yard just as Simon was returning from his own early morning gallop. He raised his hand in a perfunctory greeting and would have ridden on, but at Jane’s gesture, he pulled up.

“Ride with you?” he asked warily in response to her demure invitation.

“Yes, just for a little way,” replied Jane, a little disgruntled at his reluctance. “I shan’t keep you from your breakfast for long.”

He grinned. “It’s not my stomach I’m worried about. I’m a man who believes in learning from experience, and it’s been my experience that when you wish to talk to me, I am about to be treated to a constructive discourse I do not at all wish to hear.”

This was uncomfortably close to the mark, and Jane felt heat rise to her cheeks. She did not answer, but waited for him to turn his horse about. For some minutes they rode together in a silence that was oddly companionable. Jane was intensely aware of Simon’s nearness and found herself musing in a most unmaidenly fashion on the muscular frame that showed to such advantage in well-cut riding clothes.

“How well,” said Jane at last, speaking with some difficulty, “do you know the Earl of Wye?”

“Charles?” Simon asked in surprise. “Well, we are not precisely bosom bows, but I’ve known him for some years now.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Actually, I do not know him all that well. The time we served together was fairly brief, and our correspondence since has been—well, intermittent. Why do you ask?” he concluded cautiously.

“Umm, what makes you think he is a proper husband for Winifred?”

He turned toward her, and in his eyes, Jane read his displeasure, “what possible concern can my choice of a husband for Winifred be to you, Miss Burch?”

Oh, dear. “Miss Burch.” Jane sighed. He was indeed displeased.

“Winifred is my friend,” she answered smoothly, biting her tongue as she almost added, “and will be playing hostess to my two sisters.” Instead, she lowered her gaze demurely. “I have reason to believe that the earl is not the sort of man you think him.”

“Ah. And what sort of man do I think him?”

“You believe him to be eminently eligible because of his title and his wealth. And, I suppose, you believe him to be a gentleman.”

“Well, of all the presumptuous... Of course, he is a gentleman. He—” Simon stopped abruptly, recalling the lickerish expression on Charles’s face that first evening at Selworth, when he’d inquired as to Jane’s status in the household. “Why?” he asked baldly.

Jane drew a long breath, and launched into a description of the earl’s behavior toward her since his arrival. She had not yet come to the incident the night before when Charles had availed himself of Winifred’s enticing proximity, when Simon interrupted her.

“He actually put his hands on your—on you?” he asked, his fists clenched so tightly on Storm’s reins that the animal’s head drew back indignantly. “Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

Jane shifted in her saddle, feeling herself on shaky ground. “I did not want to cause a row,” she said at last. “Lord Wye is your friend—and your guest. I was afraid—”

Simon snorted. “You must have done something to encourage him,” he said through tight lips.

“What!” gasped Jane in outraged astonishment.

“Not purposely, of course,” continued Simon hastily. His lean cheeks took on a dull flush. “That is—you have not the slightest sense of decorum, and you must have inadvertently said or done something that led him to think—quite falsely, of course, that-—”

Had Jane not been astride a horse, she would have slapped him. Instead, she wrenched on her reins, backing away from him.

“Never mind,” she said breathlessly, almost choking on the rage and hurt and humiliation that boiled within her. “I deeply regret having brought this matter to your attention. I might have known that you would take Charles’s part. You are both men, after all.” She spat the words with loathing. “I realize what I am about to say is quite useless, but I did not encourage Charles—in word, gesture, or deed. The earl is, quite simply, a lecher. I can, of course, understand why this makes no difference to you. He is wealthy and a peer. Those facts quite outweigh any minor character flaws and make him eminently suitable as a parti for your ward, of whose moral standards you have so loudly proclaimed yourself the guardian.”

White-faced, Simon lifted a hand in protest, but Jane hurtled on, giving him no chance to respond. “Winifred is an innocent, and gently bred, but I am sure in time she will become accustomed to her husband’s distasteful gropings as well as his tendency to molest the housemaids, to say nothing of the drain on the household budget caused by the demands of his mistresses. She will also, no doubt, learn to deal with the malicious barbs that are sure to be flung at her by the oh-so-proper members of the ton.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “It is unfortunate that I shall be unable to leave Selworth until after Winifred’s play, but please be assured that I will keep well out of your way for the remainder of my stay. In fact, it is my devout hope that I will not have to speak to you again while I am here.”

Unable to forestall any longer the tears that rose in a painful tide behind her eyes, she spurred Talavera, and in a few moments had sped away.

Simon watched her straight back disappear into the golden morning mist. He sagged in his saddle. Lord, he thought, bitterly, in her boy’s shirt and breeches she was more seductive than any female he had ever beheld in revealing décolletage and winsome furbelows. He groaned. She had come to him, openly and in all sincerity to be of help to him, and he had returned her generosity by blurting out the most hurtful thing he could have said. He had not meant any of it, of course. He cursed silently. He was so damned obsessed with getting Winifred married off that he could not see beyond his fear of having to marry her himself.

He was forced to admit to himself that he had already observed that Charles was less than the perfect gentleman, but it was his feeling that he and Winifred deserved each other. Besides, if he were to admit that Charles was totally unsuitable husband material (and right now, his most urgent desire was to smash his fist into Charles’s face, hard and repeatedly), it would be necessary to drive the earl from his house with a fiery sword. This course of action would leave him with nothing but a curse and a prayer between him and a meeting with Winifred before the vicar and a churchful of wellwishers.

To be sure, Winifred was not the fright he had feared she would be. She was a beautiful girl and, once she had been turned from her ludicrous plan to go on the stage, she would settle down, at which time she would no doubt be a credit to any man’s home. He, personally, would rather be hung by his heels over a pit of alligators than marry her. Particularly, since he was already—